You Died
by Bitter Baristas
Summary: Deadpool shushes the boys babbling and puts a hand on the back of the youths head. He rocks gently with Peter in his arms, murmuring soothing words he isn't sure Peter can hear. Finally, after minutes of heart wrenching sobbing, Peter says something he can understand. It's a small, broken explanation. "You died." Character Death. Spideypool.


It all happens so quickly Peter doesn't comprehend what's going on until Deadpool goes limp against him.

His spider senses are screaming at him and they've managed to avoid all the other gunshots. Bullets ricochet off the alleyways brick walls and if Peter had known the druggies were packing this kind of heat he would have approached the situation differently. Deadpool yells over the din that they have to be just about out of bullets. Peter scrambles up a wall and webs the last two of five down and sighs in relief.

He lands on his feet, mouth parted to say something, when Deadpool's head whips in the direction of the first thug Peter had subdued. He reaches for Peter and yanks him into a protective embrace, but there's not enough time for him to dodge.

Three deafening shots ring out.

Crushed against Deadpool's chest, Peter opens his eyes and looks up. The man's mask is devoid of emotion and for a moment nothing else happens. For a moment, Peter thinks the man missed all three shots.

Until hot blood seeps into his suit. After that Peter doesn't remember much other than beating the bad guys more than he normally would.

He picks Deadpool up gently, as if moving him would hurt the man. _It won't. He's dead. Dead, dead, dead._

He uses webs to tie the man to his back because Deadpool can't cling to him like he normally would. Deadpool loves riding on his back as he swings from building to building. Peter loves it, too. The feeling of steely legs wrapped around his waist, strong arms around his shoulders like a safety harness. And they do make him feel safe. _Deadpool_ makes him feel safe.

But the body against him is lax. No chin tucked into the nook of his shoulder and neck, no ridiculous commentary in his ear. He hastily lands on the rooftop of their apartment building, spider senses telling him that no one is watching as he slides open the window of their third story apartment and crawls inside. He shoves the window shut and closes the curtains, running to the bathroom with Deadpool still on his back.

Peter slashes the webs binding Deadpool to him and sets the man in their bathtub, his blood flowing lazily now. Weather that's because of coagulation or because Deadpool's lost most of his blood Peter doesn't know.

White porcelain becomes tainted with red droplets and smears.

He stares down at the body, doesn't realize he's hyperventilating until lightheadedness makes the room tilt. Sensations bombard him. The warm squish of his soaked suit. The coppery smell of blood, so thick he can taste it. Peter crashes on his knees in front of the toilet and vomits, coughing and sputtering until there's nothing left inside him.

Shaking hands rip his suit from his body and Peter leaves it in a bloody heap on the bathroom floor, stumbling to the kitchen. He has to lean on the wall for support, his impeccable balance off kilter.

 _Wade's dead. Dead because he was protecting me. It's my fault he fucking died._

Peter collapses in a corner between the cabinets and dishwasher. The chill of the linoleum on his naked backside barely registers. Trembling, he hugs his knees to his chest. Every time he closes his eyes he sees Deadpool's lifeless body.

Logically, Peter knows that Deadpool, like himself, has a healing factor. Deadpool literally _can't_ die. The man is immortal. Peter doesn't know the entire story-Wade doesn't like talking about it and he won't reopen old wounds for his beloved-but he's heard snippets from Stark and Rogers. Wade's healing factor came from Wolverine's, and became mutated when it bonded with his cancer. That, however, wasn't what made him the unkillable Regenerating Degenerate. That was Thanos' doing. Death was a right Deadpool wasn't privileged to have.

It's impossible for him to die.

Logically, there's no reason for Peter to be falling apart.

Yet he is in terror's grip and unable to free himself. What if Wade doesn't heal? What if he's really gone?

And the thought he condemns to the oblivion of his mind. Refuses to acknowledge.

 _What if he leaves me?_

A sob rips from his throat. Peter cries. He's no stranger to death. Far from it. His parents died. Uncle Ben died. But he's never seen it so up close. So terrifyingly in his face. He felt Deadpool die against him, heard the gurgling of blood in his airway as he took his dying breaths.

Now he's covered in the man's drying blood. From his head to his toes he's wearing the red of Deadpool. It makes his skin itch, but he can't bring himself to move. All he can do is sit. And wait.

* * *

Deadpool groans. His head is killing him. Yellow laughs at his pun and the man sits up, dazed and confused. He's in… a bathroom. Not just any bathroom, either. On the counter is a familiar collection of rubber ducks that tells him this is his bathroom. Well, his and Peter's.

Peter.

He jerks upright. They had been fighting, he'd shielded his baby boy from a bullet. Hadn't he? Heaving himself out of the bathtub he sees something that makes him feel cold.

Peter's suit, looking very bloody and discarded on the floor.

He runs.

His lovers name catches in his throat as he bursts out of the bathroom and sees the trail of bloody footprints leading to the kitchen, the scarlet streaks maring the whitewashed walls.

No. Please no.

"Peter!" He looks frantically, sees the Peter shaped ball huddled in a corner. He is in front of the boy in a moment, checking him for injuries that would cause this much blood loss. Peter gasps and leans back so quickly his head slams against the cabinet.

Wide, watery eyes lock on him and Peter lunges, crying renewed. Deadpool's arms encase him automatically, holding him tightly. Peter trembles in his hold and he feels the boy's heart thundering from the confines of his ribcage. His spider clutches at him desperately, rubbing his face into Deadpool's chest as if he wants to crawl inside him.

Peter's breaths come in short, rapid bursts. He tries to speak in between body shaking sobs and fast breaths, any words he manages to form dissolving as he cries harder. Deadpool shushes the boys babbling and puts a hand on the back of the youths head. He rocks gently with Peter in his arms, murmuring soothing words he isn't sure Peter can hear.

Finally, after minutes of heartwrenching sobbing, Peter says something he can understand. It's a small, broken explanation.

"You died."

Deadpool hushes him again, hugging him tighter. He strokes Peter's tangled hair, whispers reassurances. His voice washes over Peter and he feels the body in his lap relax.

After Peter is calm, he pulls away, grips the boys chin.

"I can't die, you know that, baby boy." His voice lilts teasingly. Peter avoids his gaze, nodding.

"I've just… I've never seen that. I couldn't stop thinking you wouldn't…" _Heal. Come back to me._

"You can't get rid of me, Petey. I'm like a rash." That gets a weak smile. Peter sniffs and presses himself into Wade's chest.

"Rashes go away, stupid." He mutters without bite.

"Not this one!" Deadpool chirps. "I'm… an STD. A stud tied down, to you!" He feels Peter nod against him.

They stay that way for a long time. Deadpool sees the darkness of night lightening through one of the windows. Sirens wail in the distance. Cars speed past on the streets below.

Peter is quiet in his arms, close to falling asleep if his slow breathing is any indication. Deadpool can't blame him. The boy's day had been an emotional roller coaster.

He stands with Peter in his arms and carries him to the bathroom. Peter cracks an eye open and makes a confused sound.

"You can't sleep like that." Deadpool says kindly, turning the shower faucet to a temperature he knows will help knock some of the tension out of Peter's shoulders. He lets the water run until steam rises from it, peels off his gloves and wipes away the blood clotted on the bottom of the tub. "In you go, Spidey."

Peter does as he's told, more than willing to obey any order Wade wants to give him. Because Wade takes care of him. Wade can make everything okay even when things are so wrong.

Deadpool follows him, guilt heavy in his stomach. Under the pale light of the bare bulbs the contrast of red-brown on Peter's fair skin is even more stark. The height difference between them is only four inches, but Peter is hunched into himself and looks so small. Fragile.

His shoulder blades look ready to split his skin so that wings might burst forth. Elbows are sharp and his hip bones jut out. Deadpool can see the top three knobs of Peter's spine on the back of his neck. While Peter's back faces him, he knows the outline of his ribs are visible beneath his six pack.

There isn't an extra ounce of flesh or fat on the boy.

Peter is thin. It's not his fault. But Peter's state of emotional vulnerability seems to reflect in his appearance. Deadpool knows his baby boy eats like a locust; there's no reason to worry about Peter starving himself. He might get swept up in the excitement of something at work, but the moment he walks into their apartment the man makes a beeline for the kitchen. His teenage appetite has yet to fade and Deadpool delights in feeding Peter until the boy's flat stomach is distended.

He just wishes some weight would stick to the boy.

"Mmm not too thin." Peter says sleepily, turning to press his wet body against Deadpool's. Deadpool hums and grabs the bottle of strawberry scented Hannah Montana shampoo he got on their last grocery trip.

"My thoughts have no private setting," he muses, lathering Peter's hair with the shampoo.

"May," a yawn interrupts his thought. "Always said the neighbors must think she starves me."

"How is May?" Deadpool asks using his 'hair-dresser' voice that annoys Peter. The boy really must be tired because he doesn't bother to smack him.

"You saw her at breakfast last Tuesday." He points out, sagging under Deadpool's talented fingers.

"A lot can happen in a few days." Deadpool says with mock offence.

"She's good." Peter is slurring now. "Wants me to go with her to some new… bath stuff store. Told her you'd have a field day at that place."

Deadpool looks up from the loofa he's pouring vanilla sugar body wash onto.

"What would give you that idea?" He asks innocently.

Peter snorts and lets Deadpool maneuver him so he can scrub him clean. Sudsy pink water swirls down the drain. Deadpool works conditioner into his hair, combing out any knots with his fingers.

Once he's satisfied Peter is spotless he turns off the shower and wraps his baby boy in the fluffiest towel they have. Peter mumbles a thank you and shuffles to their room, flopping unceremoniously onto the bed.

Wade smiles to himself and grabs a bottle of lotion before following Peter.

Peter is already dozing, malleable as Deadpool rubs the sweet smelling cream into his lovers skin. Task finished, he casts an appreciative eye at the sleeping boy.

Slipping into bed beside him is oh so tempting, but he has work to do.

Before he joins Peter, Deadpool erases every trace of blood from their apartment. As he wipes the maroon from the walls and floors, he can't help thinking 'what if this was Peter's blood'? What if Peter had been the one to be shot tonight? Would his healing factor have been good enough to save his little loves life? If Peter had died in that alley, what would he have done?

This line of thinking brings him to something he's been trying not to think about.

 _What will happen to me when Peter does die?_

The boy, his beautifully perfect baby boy, is not immortal. Resistant to damage, yes, but not invincible. He has a clock steadily ticking down to death. And Wade does not. Unless Thanos decides to take away his curse he will live forever. Until time and space themselves ceases to exist.

How long does Peter have? How long has his healing factor extended his lifespan, if at all? The record for longest living person was one hundred and twenty-two years. That isn't enough time. Unless it's eternity, there will never be enough time to spend with Peter.

Even if Peter does live into his hundreds-and their crime fighting comes with infinite occupational hazards-they won't be the good years. How long can Peter go on until his brain starts to fade? Will there come a time when Peter looks at him with glassy eyes and doesn't recognize him?

Will he have to stand beside Peter in a room that smells of antiseptic, holding a withered hand in his unchanging, scared ones? When that time comes, will there be children they raised together with him? Watching as their father, the love of his unending life, slip into deaths open arms?

Could he see his lovely baby boys face with Deaths help? Peter will surely go somewhere better than her domain. Heaven, nirvana, valhalla, elysium. Peter isn't religious, but his goodness will transcend such earthly concepts.

Wherever Peter goes, Wade has the feeling he won't be able to visit.

Nausea twists his stomach and he sits leaning against the cool bathtub. Heels dig into his eyelids and he sits unmoving, listening to the apartment settle around them. Above them a dishwasher clunks, in the hallway heels click, pipes in the walls groan as they take hot water elsewhere in the building.

In their bedroom Peter breathes softly.

Wade sighs and puts away the cleaning supplies.

There is an idea he's been mulling over for a while. Death remains his friend despite their relationship not lasting, and Thanos still longs for the Goddess. There was a slim, insignificant chance she could convince Thanos to remove the curse that kept him forever alive.

Then he would not have to watch his baby boy die knowing he could never join him.

He would have to ask her. Beg, plead, beseech, implore. Whatever he had to do, he'd do it.

Deadpool lingers in the doorway of the bedroom. Peter hugs a pillow, still on top of the covers. He sighs and lays beside the other. Peter makes a sound and turns onto his back, hand flopping out towards Wade.

He takes that hand and holds it. He studies the tranquil expression on Peter's perfect face. Deadpool watches him until sleep claims him.

When Peter wakes he will see no reminders of this night and he will smell only the chocolate chip pancakes Deadpool is cooking for him.

A/N: I'm a slut for comments.


End file.
